


The Romance of Clun

by leiascully



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Clarke
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The difficulty for Arabella Woodhope, when it came to marriage, was that she was in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Romance of Clun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aoede](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Aoede).



> Disclaimer: _Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell_ and all related characters are the property of Susannah Clarke and Bloomsbury. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

The difficulty for Arabella Woodhope, when it came to marriage, was that she was in love. At the age of twenty, she was nearly an old maid, or so Henry frequently mused at the dinner table.

"Dear Arabella," he would say, with all the warmth and care that a sister could desire, particularly from a brother in the clergy, "we really must keep an eye out to see if we can't discover a suitable husband for you one of these days. I don't like to see you so cloistered."

"Yes, Henry," she would say demurely, sighing a little on the inside. That generally soothed his sense of responsibility. Every now and again he would look up sharply and give her a penetrating glance, but she kept her face smooth and innocent, and he always seemed satisfied. He would shake out his newspaper or his letter from a fellow in another parish and go back to eating his soup, and Arabella could go back to wondering when Mister Strange would write next. He always included a line or two for her - a kindness unheard of with her brother's other friends1. From time to time she wondered if he realized how highly she regarded him. The neighborhood seemed emptier without his gangling figure and his impulsive projects. The matrons of Clun had begun to click their tongues and tell each other that it was time that Mister Strange found a wife to steady him, and of course they knew just the girl.

Mister Strange, meanwhile, seemed utterly oblivious to the schemes for his future. He swooped from profession to profession at a whim, and from partner to partner on the dance floor. At each infrequent visit, he had some new plan to propose. His conviction was always true; his speeches were always elegant; and each time, he began again. Arabella was privately glad of this, after a fashion - he seemed to take the same approach to romance. Surely one day he would settle down, and until then, she had time enough to make schemes of her own.

"Arabella, have you heard?" Henry said one day as she came into the drawing room and shed her bonnet. "Mister Strange will be in Shropshire a week hence for the ball."2

"Oh?" Arabella said, suddenly pleased that she had been to town to buy fabric to have a new gown made. She was a little breathless from the walk, as of course unexpected news, however welcome, could not ruffle her.

"He has not been home this sevenmonth," Henry said, frowning. "As good a friend as he has been, I hate to see him so shiftless. He could do anything and yet he does nothing."3

"Perhaps he needs the influence of the right woman," Arabella said mockingly.

"Now there is a thought to consider," Henry began, and Arabella laughed, but her soul was dancing already.

It seemed an endless expanse of time until the night of the ball. Arabella thought that Henry fretted quite as much as she did, although much more openly. Mister Strange did not visit them at home, but Arabella saw him as soon as she stepped into the room, and her heart skipped on light feet. She made no attempt to approach him; he deserved a cool welcome for neglecting them so long. But it was inevitable that they should come face to face with each other. Clun was small, and Shropshire must seem provincial after the traveling he had done. It was both a blessing and a trial that one could never avoid any body else for very long in Clun. Besides, Mister Strange had always enjoyed dancing, and so had she.

"Ah, Miss Woodhope," he said, meeting her in a figure as they crossed the dance floor, "I trust have you been well? And Henry, of course."

"Well enough, Mister Strange, as you'd know if you would come and visit," she countered, executing her curtsey with grace. "It has been these three months." She twirled. "Henry misses your company, I think. There are few enough in the neighborhood who can carry on a lively conversation without you conspicuously absenting yourself."

"I have been occupied," said Mister Strange, having the grace to flush as red as his hair. Even the point of his long nose was pink.

"Hmmm," Arabella said, in a tone calculated to give him to understand that she knew exactly what his occupation had been. Certainly she had heard the news of his courtship of the woman who had overthrown him for a man in Jamaica with a glass eye4. Even in so relatively isolated a parish as Clun, the rumor mill flourished. Aside from which, she had known him since he was a gangly youth falling out of the hay loft of the stables while Henry leapt after him, and he had never had any particular skill for dissembling.

"I will come more often," he promised.

She favored him with a look that brimmed with skepticism as their paths crossed and saw his cheeks bloom even rosier.

"Miss Woodhope," he began, but she had moved on through the figure, skipping away, letting her skirt swish as she went. Certainly she had known him long enough to know when his interest was engaged.

"Miss Woodhope," he said when he caught up to her a few dances later as she lingered in the corner, feigning to be deep in conversation with one of the other ladies, "you have misjudged me."

"Have I, Mister Strange?"

"My excuses, Miss Good," Mister Strange said, "Miss Woodhope, may I get you something to drink? You look heated," and steered Arabella deftly away.

"That was done without grace," she observed.

"As long as Miss Good will credit me for a modicum of tact, I don't see that I will have ruffled many feathers," he said, fetching her a cup with a distracted air. "Do you think they will deny me entrance to the next ball?"

"I am not certain where that ball will be," she said, sipping at the wine.

He let out an exasperated sigh. "You know very well that my father and I have no great love between us."5

"Perhaps not," Arabella said, "but you have assured me often that you and my brother were the dearest of companions, since your boyhood together."

Mister Strange took up a cup of wine and drained it. "It is not always pleasant for me to be at Ashfair."

"And so you avoid the whole of Clun," Arabella said, nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, Mister Strange, you do well to do so. There is no place for you. After all, no one at this ball has acknowledged or exclaimed over you. Your friends have forgotten you."

"You would have me here and not lodged in my own home, is that it?" Mister Strange asked, gazing out across the dance floor.

"Of course not," Arabella said. "You and Henry are no longer boys, as apt to spend the night in the loft as in the house."

"Exactly!" Mister Strange agreed. "A grown man has his dignity."

"Yes," Arabella said softly and pointedly. "A man does."

"You make me out a churl and a coward, Miss Woodhope," said Mister Strange after a moment. His ears were red now; she had well and truly vexed him. She sighed.

"Forgive my boldness, Mister Strange," she said, "but the neighborhood sorely feels the lack of you."

"It is not so easy as you think," he said.

"I am certain that it is not," she said. "Henry and I have been fortunate. But, Mister Strange, you will never fail to find a warm welcome in Clun, if not at Ashfair."

"Thank you, Miss Woodhope," he said, turning his head to look at her. The intensity of his gaze set up a tremor in her stomach. She clasped her hands in front of her waist, trying to soothe it. She had been able to resist it most of the evening, but under the full force of his attention, her vigorous constitution failed her. There was the real reason she had wanted him to send a letter to Henry to announce the imminence of his presence in the neighborhood, the reason she could hear the gossip about him with a face well-schooled in indifference. She was deeply in love with him, as desperate as any of Mrs. Radcliffe's heroines. On the whole, she preferred that the resolution of her love not involve her abduction and rescue from a dreary, haunted castle or manor - Jonathan Strange was few maidens' idea of a knight in shining armor - but she experienced the fluttery, overwhelming rush of emotion that such heroines described when the object of their affections entered a room. It was impractical and very nearly unfortunate for a woman of rational mind, but still, she welcomed the moments when his presence sent her half into a swoon. Standing so near him now, it was almost a wonder she could still breathe freely, though perhaps that was due in part to the heat of the room and the noise of the crowd.

"Are you feeling quite well?" he asked. His expression had gone in an instant from the disgruntled, sulky moue of a youth to the solicitous anxiousness of a friend. She longed to see it transform further into the possessive and tender worry of a husband. He looked at her now as if he had not actually seen her in several years.

"The wine," she said by way of explanation. "I believe I drank too quickly after the dancing."

"I did not think you had more than a sip," he said doubtfully, brow wrinkling in adorable concern.

"I do not often drink such a rare vintage," she offered, which he seemed to accept.

"I am sorry, Miss Woodhope," he said after a moment. "I did not realize my absence had affected you so deeply."

"Your society is pleasant enough, Mister Strange, but my concern is mostly for Henry." She breathed deeply, steadying herself. "Although I admit the conversation is never so lively as when you attend a party."

"I might say the same for you, Miss Woodhope," he said, an amused warmth seeping into his voice. "I am glad to see you recover so quickly from your swoon."

"A lady in the company of gentlemen must be quick to recover from any stumble," Arabella said, "lest she lose the hem of her skirt to a boot. I am fond of this dress."

"Just so," Mister Strange said. "It suits you very well." His gaze traveled across the room and lit upon a gentleman who seemed to be spinning a tale to two other gentlemen - all three gestures broadly and nodded in jovial agreement. "If you'll excuse me, Miss Woodhope, I must take my leave for a while."

"I am accustomed to your exits, Mister Strange," she said gently, and he inclined his head, a smirk creasing his mouth. "By the way, Mister Strange," she tossed after him, "you ought not drink so much yourself. It thins the blood."6

He bowed to her, his face ironical, and strode off across the room. But he called the next day, and strode around the grounds with Henry for hours, and made charming conversation at the dinner table, and they all spent a very pleasant evening together.

"I will return, Miss Woodhope," he assured her as he was standing in the foyer, waiting for his horse to be brought around. He slapped his gloves idly against his thigh. "You have reminded me of the good there is to be found in Clun."

"Indeed there is, Mister Strange," she said, "and some of it depends on you."

His long face grew thoughtful; she almost thought the point of his nose quivered slightly. "I would not alter that for the world."

"Come again soon, Mister Strange," she said.

"I swear that I will," he said seriously. "Farewell, Miss Woodhope."

"Farewell, Mister Strange," she said, but it seemed as if the door closing was only a new road opening.

He returned to Shropshire within the space of several weeks and seemed to have ridden immediately to call upon Arabella, who received him in the drawing room.

"Henry is not at home," she said in apology. "I am sure he will return before dinner. He is out seeing to the needs of some of his parishioners - there is no body so dedicated to the people of Shropshire as Henry is."

"I am at my leisure this afternoon," Mister Strange said. "But it is not Henry whom I came to see today."

"No?" Arabella said, her heart leaping.

"Miss Woodhope, you have done me an injustice," Mister Strange said, the dust of the road still on his boots as he accepted a cup of tea from the servants.

"If I have, I am sorry, Mister Strange," she said, sipping at her own tea, her mind racing. "I pray you would reveal to me the manner of my transgression."

"You all but accused me of neglecting Shropshire and my connections here. On the strength of our acquaintance, you know full well that my duties to my mother's family have obliged me to spend a great deal of time in Edinburgh, as a consequence of which I have less leisure to be at Ashfair."7

"Perhaps that was true in your youth, Mister Strange, but you reached your majority some years ago," Arabella said. "By your own accounts, you spend less and less time in Edinburgh. I have heard you lament it."

He stared at her. "Well, yes. But I have had other matters to tend to."

"Certainly," she said. "You have had any number of matters. A great number of card games, I believe."

"And matters of business!" he protested. "I have had legitimate matters of business for my father and myself."

"With every season you have a new sort of business," Arabella said. "It is most impressive, Mister Strange. It is as if you see the world as your tailor, and you will try on each occupation to see which one best suits your figure and this season's styles."

"I swear to you, Miss Woodhope, there is no body in the world who holds me to a higher standard than you do."

"I am glad of it," she said vehemently, startling herself and him. "I would wish only one person to take your measure with a sterner eye, and that is you, Mister Strange."

They both sat in silence for a moment, gazing at each other. Arabella could sense the flush in her cheeks; the hand which held her teacup was trembling a little. Mister Strange was watching her with a curious expression. He seemed slightly awed. The clock on the mantle seemed to tick more slowly and more solemnly than usual. Each _tock_ fell into the silence as if it were a pebble splashing into a pool.

"Miss Woodhope, you see me..." Mister Strange began.

"I apologize for my rash words, Mister Strange," Arabella said hastily.

"Not at all," Mister Strange assured her. "I was only going to say that you see me in a most unflattering light. You are not the first, of course, but I find more and more that you are the only one whose opinion matters on that score. You are the only one whose corrections inspire me to improve myself."

"Well," said Arabella after a moment. "I suppose that is something I can be proud of."

"I hope that someday you will find that you can be proud of _me_," Mister Strange said.

"I am certain that will be true," Arabella said.

"I hope that it will be," Mister Strange said again. "No wonder I have stayed away. You hold up a mirror to my life and show me the worst of myself."

"I would show you more than that," Arabella said with feeling, and then blushed. Mister Strange's ears were red too.

They sat looking at each other in a kind of delicate, tentative wonder until Henry came striding in to greet Mister Strange warmly and to tell him about the many fine householders of Shropshire. Arabella made her excuses and slipped away to her room. She thought she might float up the stairs. Mister Strange stayed to dinner; she avoided his eyes across the table while lavishing affectionate glances on the nape of his neck when he was engaged in conversation with her brother. Henry paid neither of them any mind, full of news about the marriages and births and deaths of his flock.

After dinner had been eaten and the men had taken brandy in the library while Arabella composed a letter to an old school friend, they all stood in the front hall making their farewells.   
"I will be back again soon," Mister Strange assured them both, shaking Henry's hand.

"See that you honor that promise!" Henry said jovially. "You have been too long away, and you will forget your honest heritage in city polish."

"I have no intention of forgetting that promise," Mister Strange said, looking straight at Arabella. "Shropshire is my home, and I will not neglect it any longer."

Arabella nodded to him, her lips pressed together to hide her smile. "We will await your coming with great anticipation, Mister Strange."

"That gives me great joy, to know that I will always have a place where I can find comfort and ease," Mister Strange said, stepping out as his horse was brought around. "Fare well. When I return, you may find me a changed man. I have determined to make a difference in the world."

"You have already made a difference to me," Arabella said to him, under her breath where Henry could not hear, and Mister Strange favored her with a brilliant smile. His spine as he rode away was very straight and determined. As Arabella went back up to her room, she felt not at all as if she were one of Mrs. Radcliffe's helpless heroines - this was different, and it was better, for she had not swooned and would not allow herself to be carried away, and when Mister Strange returned, she hoped he would remake the world, using his boundless imagination and energy and his wealth for the betterment of those who surrounded them. No, she was certain he would, and that she would be at his side, and together they would explore the realm of possibility.

1 Jonathan Strange's letters to Henry Woodhope are excerpted in John Segundus' biography _The Life Of Jonathan Strange_, pub. John Murray, London, 1820. Arabella Strange, née Woodhope, is mentioned often, although she does not appear as the author of any letters until midway through 1807.

2 The ball was given not in Clun but in the nearby town of P-- by the local landholder. Jonathan Strange confessed to not remembering the name of this generous man. Arabella Strange promised the name to John Segundus for his biography, but was unfortunately taken into Faerie prior to providing the information; upon her return to England, Segundus and his fellow authors were more interested in hearing of her experiences and Strange's exploits in delivering her, and the detail about the ball was omitted from _The Life Of Jonathan Strange_, pub. John Murray, London, 1820.

3 Jonathan Strange's inability to settle on a profession had become something of a local legend by 1806; his circulation through, variously, patron of the arts, the study of law, the study of fossils, the craft of iron-founding, the study of rather advanced and innovative techniques of agriculture, and the study of theology are detailed in _The Life Of Jonathan Strange_ by John Segundus, pub. John Murray, London, 1820.

4 This woman's name has been lost. After beginning his courtship of Arabella Woodhope, Strange never spoke of her again.

5 Laurence Strange's indifference to his son, Jonathan Strange, following the death of his wife, Mrs. Strange née Erquistoune of the Edinburgh Erquistounes, is well-documented in the court records of Strange _versus_ Erquistoune (Doctors Commons, London, 1786) and Erquistoune _versus_ Strange (High Court of Justiciary, Edinburgh, 1786).

6 On the advice of Mr. Norrell, Lord Portishead published an article in _The Friends Of English Magic_ in 1809 cautioning magicians against the consumption of large quantities of alcohol, claiming that this could affect the vigor and accuracy of spells.

7 Laurence Strange's arrangement with the Equistounes that Jonathan Strange should spend part of every year in Edinburgh with his deceased mother's family began when he was a child of five years and continued until Jonathan Strange began at Cambridge.


End file.
